I pictured Christy’s smile, the one that hooked me the day I met her. What if I didn’t wake up? I set the alarm on my phone to alert me every 20 minutes. I took off my right sock and folded it into a compress for my head. I unbuttoned my shirt and wrapped it tight around the gash. Excessive bleeding: apply constant pressure. No cell signal, but I could launch the app. My iPhone.the first-aid app! Thank God I had downloaded that. Now what? I didn’t want to die because of this wound. A gash ran from my knee to just above my ankle, bleeding heavily. My ankle was bloody and swollen–something felt broken. The pocket I’d been in disappeared in an avalanche of dust. On the other side, I hopped on my right leg into the elevator. With a deep breath, I dragged myself under a fallen beam. But about 20 yards away was something that looked like a shower stall–the elevator. I pressed the shutter down halfway and used the red focus light to get my bearings. The display lit up–I wasn’t blind, I was buried. Putting my weight on my good leg, I stood. I dug through the debris and finally wrenched my leg free. I’m alive, but for how long? Any second, an aftershock could level the pocket I was in. I tried to yank it free, but that made the pain worse. Had something gotten in my eyes and blinded me? Pain shot from my left leg and I realized my foot was pinned under debris. Pulverized concrete and mortar clogged my throat. A wall crumbled and part of the ceiling fell, striking my head. There was a rumble I recognized from my boyhood in California: earthquake! The walls rippled like liquid–then exploded, sending splinters of concrete, wood and glass flying. Walking through the lobby, I turned to catch one more glimpse of the city.īoom! It sounded like a thunderclap, but so close it shook the ground beneath my feet and I stumbled. I slung my camera around my neck and climbed out of the SUV, waving goodbye. I wished I could believe everything would work out for us, but I hadn’t been able to focus much on my faith lately, and was praying less often.
Working for a nonprofit fit my values, but it was challenging for us financially. When I traveled I worried more about her and our boys, six-year-old Josh and three-year-old Nathan. Because of her concerns, I downloaded a first-aid app for my iPhone, just in case. My wife, Christy, worried about the trip. Normally I gathered stories created by others.
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I’d only been working for Compassion International for 18 months. Now, after a long, bumpy ride back in our SUV, I looked forward to dinner and a good night’s sleep. My notes had almost filled my small Moleskine journal. It would go on a website showing our health-care and education programs for new mothers and their children.
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With a videographer and an interpreter, I’d interviewed families living in the shacks clustered around the city, gathering video footage for Compassion International, a Christian nonprofit that helps disadvantaged children throughout the world. That Tuesday in January 2010, the Hotel Montana, with its white columns, layered terraces and open-air lobby, was a welcome sight after a long day on the streets near Port-au-Prince, Haiti.